Trail of Crumbs
by Silver Fists
Summary: Betrothed to one man who didn't care for her and betrayed by another who she thought did, Lucy finally got away from the mess of the big city. Turns out, life's tough no matter where you hide from it. ***an attempt to write a story with multiple intertwining lives, where characters are human with flaws and issues and there's no such thing as love at first sight.***
1. 1 Varvara

1: Varvara

 **Saturday, June 6, 1903**

The breeze was warm and sweet. The ever-present smell of manure was no longer offensive, but comforting in a way - the cows were already out grazing in the fields, milked while the sun was still asleep. The summer heat was already setting in, making the very air itself feel like soup. If it weren't for the occasional stirring of air from Jamaica Bay to the south of the island, it would be next to impossible to breathe by noon. As it was, at least there would be some reprieve that the air at least moved. The men gathered by the tall barn, getting their tools and carts ready for a long day at the far end of the acreage, plowing fields to ready them for fall crops.

The Egorov farm was far enough from the growing city center in a rural bubble of its own. Flatlands was an area of Brooklyn that was still home to farmhouses and acres of open land where stock was raised to feed busy Manhattanites. Industry was quickly changing the face of New York and the city sprawled further and further out, swallowing up the natural makeup of the land. Whole neighborhoods popped up overnight, hills shaved down to flat lands and perfect grids of new streets were laid out where wildlife had ruled for millenia. The farm was on borrowed time, though for now it was busy enough - a growing city was a hungry city after all. All the milk and beef the farm could produce went straight to Manhattan's restaurateurs, while fresh produce, eggs, and cheeses sold well at market. Every busy season started off with the hope that there would be a next one and at least this summer was busy enough that Fyodor Mikhailovitch Egorov was able to hire on some extra men to help him and his boys manage the place.

The men moved out in the fields and their strong voices carried on the breeze as they sang a crass tune that set a pace for their toil in the pounding sun. Fyodor had taken two of his three sons to sell fresh goods at the Hester Street Market. The hired hands were left under the supervision of the eldest of the Egorov boys - a sign that the father was starting to finally forgive the son for his transgressions of four years past. Yaroslav worked right alongside the rest, shoulder to shoulder with no regard for any supposed hierarchy among the working men. At the Egorov farm, everyone put in their share of the work and reaped benefits equally. Yaroslav threw his weight into plowing the field, thinking to himself for the millionth time that he was going to have a talk with his father about getting a plow that could be hitched up to some oxen. He could think of at least half a dozen things that he could use the hired hands for, instead of plowing fields by hand. Times like these, when faced with his father's stubbornness, Yaroslav thought back to the year and a half he'd spent on the streets of Manhattan as a newsie, thinking that city life wasn't all _that_ horrid. There was no time to dwell on memories, however. The plow hit a boulder and Yaroslav had to stop and wrestle the thing out of the ground before he could continue.

The women were scattered about the grounds with their own chores, keeping closer to the main house. Some of them had come in with their husbands to help with smaller tasks and would stay on until November. They would help prepare produce for sale; package up meat, dairy and eggs; wash and mend clothes; help with the cooking and tend to their husbands to keep them from straying into town too often.  
A few of the women were more permanent fixtures: the farmer's wife Varvara Petrovna; Anya, Tamara, and Olga - her three nieces who stayed at the farm for the summer; her three-year-old daughter Nora; and Lucy - the child's nanny. The Egorov brothers ranged in ages from seven to nineteen while their three-year-old sister was the only girl the family had been blessed with. Her mind wandering to her children once again, Varvara paused her mending and looked out from where she sat on the wraparound porch. Her sharp eyes scanned the fields until she could see Yaroslav's cropped, sun-bleached mop bobbing up and down as he worked. He was a handsome boy, his frame filling in nicely from all the hard work in the fields. He was a kind boy too, taking pity on all sorts of strays and the needy. It was a miracle that her Yasha had come to his senses all those years back and came home after getting the sour taste of life in the big city. True to his nature, he didn't come back alone but with another mouth to feed. At least she had proven herself useful. The girl he had brought with him, Lucy Sherway, was an odd one - quiet, with the graying hair of an old crone, and expecting. She never quite got the hang of their language, so Varvara had to give her instructions in English, which irritated her. At least she didn't shy away from hard work like she imagined most city-bred modern American girls would. She had some medical training, which often came in useful. But the deciding factor had been that she would be Nora's wet nurse, still able to produce the nourishment the baby so desperately needed despite Lucy's own eventual loss. She had been intended to just remain the baby's nanny, though over the years the list of Lucy's duties grew as quickly as the baby did.

Varvara had even considered giving the girl some sort of allowance, until one day she caught Yasha looking at the gangly thing with a longing that he had tried to hide. That was the day Varvara Petrovna Egorova decided reluctantly that the nanny had to go. Useful as she was, Yasha needed a good woman from a good family, not some disgraced runaway who, despite their many attempts, still couldn't say much more than a basic greeting in their Russian. Yasha was _her_ son, so whether he liked it or not, while he was on the Egorov farm his parents got final say on how he would live his life and who he was allowed to be enamored with.

"Anya, go see what your baby cousin is doing. It's time for her to eat soon" Varvara asked of her niece. The subtext, of course, was to see what the nanny was doing. It was as if Varvara wanted to catch her red-handed, that would give her reason to dismiss the girl. Of course, none of that ever happened. Lucy was too aware of her own luck to have ended up in this place and would never do a single thing to jeopardize her current living situation.

* * *

The breeze played with the flyaways frizzing on top of Lucy's head thanks to the humidity of the day and her repeatedly running a hand over her hair and forehead to wick away sweat. The sun had stripped the last of the colour from her braids and it was now a snow white, which made her look at least five decades older than she was. Her arms were starting to grow tired from the repetitive motion - grab a shirt, throw it on the line, pin it, grab a pair of pants, throw them on the line, pin them. It was peak season, which meant endless clothes to wash every morning for all the extra men and women that were now in temporary employ Even though she did get help at the stream with the actual washing, somehow it was just her dealing with hanging wet things to dry on lines strung up by the barn in direct sunlight. Once the laundry was done, there was mending to do, cleaning, cooking, and a slew of other chores that added up to a full day with barely a minute to sit. All that with caring for Nora all the while.

She desperately wanted a cigarette. The salty ocean air had done a good job of clearing her lungs of the tobacco damage over the years she'd been there. However, the itch in her fingers, craving to hold a tightly-rolled cigarette and the sensation of inhaling the smoke, blowing it out slowly to let the clouds tumble out of her lips - _that_ particular craving was the harder hurdle to get over.

She wasn't _going_ to smoke, no, but she could still want one. It wasn't right to do it around her pint-sized chaperone even if others were just fine to pollute the air around the sweet little thing.

Lucy picked up a large sheet out of her basket of washing and rolled her neck and shoulders before tossing it on the clothesline and tugging it to smooth it out. She pinned it in three places with wooden clothespins and ducked around the sheet to check on Nora. The child sat happily in the grass that was now wet from the dripping laundry, making mud pies in the little puddle she dug out with her clumsy fingers.

"Lusya!?" she heard Anya shout her name, running feet stomping the gravel path that ran from the house to the clearing behind the work shed where the clotheslines were stretched in several rows.

"I'm here! Hold yer hosses, I'm comin'!" She shouted from the where she was still wrestling with the sheet, several rows in and hidden among the clean laundry.  
"Hey Annie, how's it rollin?" Lucy spoke as she moved under and around the clothes, her speech still thick with the slang from another life.

"Lusya, it's luchtime soon" Anya called from the edge of where the washing hung in neat rows. Nora giggled happily at the sound of her cousin's voice and teetered toward it on chubby legs, plowing right through the grass that was now damp from the dripping wash, forgetting about her nanny altogether. "Come on and clean up, both of you, before the men starve" the twelve-year-old was authoritative beyond her years. Lucy followed after she finished hanging up the last few things in her basket. She carried the large and empty thing over her shoulder, hanging down her back like some massive shell. Even with her height, Lucy could bet that if she tried really hard enough, she could easily curl right into the bottom of the basket like the red tabby mouser did in the house at the bottom of Varvara's old knitting box.

While Anya entertained Nora on the porch, Lucy loaded up a cart with lunch for the men out in the field and pushed it down the wide dirt road that skirted the fields. Varvara had chosen to follow along that day to check in on how work was progressing. Lucy was never quite sure of how to speak with Varvara - even short, harmless quips about the weather or something adorable Nora did were met with an immediate scowl. Of course, she knew that she was a nobody on the farm - just a set of extra hands and working tits when Nora had been a baby and Varvara couldn't feed her herself. Maybe Varvara resented Lucy because of that too.

* * *

Gathered around the cart, the men shared a simple lunch of bread and homemade cheese - workers and family alike. Lucy refilled everyone's tin cups with water still cold from the well, before sitting down close to Yaroslav and offering him a bowl of crisp, fresh apple slices. They all chatted idly about work and the endless rocks out in the far field. Yaroslav kept stealing glances at the girl by his side, a faint glimmer of hope sparking up in the corners of his eyes, inspired by her attention. She always showed him kindness, that was true, but she surprised him by remembering seemingly insignificant details, such as his preference for sliced apples instead of whole. He had bit into a big worm as a kid and ever since then, preferred his apples cut up to avoid a repeat of that gruesome experience. He had never told her the story and she never asked, just noticed that he ate apples in slices and brought him just that.

"Lusya, the coffee" Varvara gestured when the men were done eating and lighting up their cigarettes in order to savor the last few minutes of their reprieve from work. The smell washed over Lucy, soothing her somewhat, though the itch returned to her hand and she kind of wished she was anywhere else but here at the moment.

"Ma, she ain't a maid, how many times we gotta talk about this?" Yaroslav gave his mother a sharp look and got up to help Lucy set out tin mugs for her to pour pitch black coffee into. His accent was quite faint, punctuated by the same speech patterns that Lucy had picked up from the boys in Manhattan.

"Yasha, sit." His mother instructed firmly. Unlike her son's very clear English, Varvara's speech was peppered with hard 'r's and 'k's, her accent thick and sometimes hard to understand whenever she got flustered. "Is _her_ work, like field is _you_." she had no issue with reminding both of them of their place, in case they ever forgot.

Yaroslav bristled and grumbled something in Russian under his breath, still firmly planted by Lucy's side.

"It's alright, Jake" Lucy glanced up at him, speaking softly, a sincere apology in her eyes "she's right". There was nothing more aggravating to him than when Lucy sided with his mother, especially in matters that directly affected her negatively, and yet she always seemed to do it. "You rest. Here, take the coffee" she pressed a mug into his broad hand and slipped away to distribute the drink to a few of the others. He tried to brush her fingers when taking the mug, but she pulled away so quickly that for a moment he thought the mug itself had burnt her. He frowned when he realized it wasn't the mug, but him.

* * *

Later that evening, after Nora had been put to bed and all the chores done for the day, Lucy sat on the stoop of her tiny clapboard cabin, the one on the far end of the row of similarly tiny cabins that were on the property for the hired help. These were meant to be habitable only through the warmer seasons, but Lucy had stayed in hers even in the dead cold of winter, managing somehow. It was the only shred of freedom that she was granted by the Egorovs and she was pretty sure her luck had been simply because they didn't want her anywhere under the same roof as Jake, or Yaroslav as was his real name here.

Lucy had been studying the stars and the moon that was getting so close to full. Another two days and it would bathe the night with all its pale glory. The slam of the kitchen door pulled her out of her reverie. Jake was saying something in Russian to his mother, exasperated by whatever disagreement they had in the kitchen. Another slam and Fyodor Mikhailovitch followed his son and wife out to the porch. Lucy shifted into the shadows of her stoop, trying hard to hear and understand what they were saying. Just because she couldn't speak a word of the language, didn't meant she didn't pick any of it up over the years. She could understand just enough to have it as an ace up her sleeve. Especially when someone was talking about her. Her heart sank when she understood a few key words.

"Nyet!" Fyodor said with a finality that made Jake stop, rooted to his spot on the porch. "Ti naidesh sebe paru, ili mi naidyom...tol'ko ne takuju...vot...kak ona" something about a finding a pairing - Lucy assumed they were speaking about courtship or an arranged marriage. It sounded like Jake had been asking about someone that Fyodor didn't think was a good match.

A few more exchanged words, too quiet for her to hear and Jake stormed off, leaving his parents to speak among themselves as they headed back inside the house.

"Hey you" she spoke in the direction of the crunch of the gravel coming around the side of her cabin a few minutes later. She knew Jake by the sound of his footsteps and the strong scent of soap that always followed him after he was done in the fields. For a farm boy he was the cleanest person she'd ever met. "Everything alright?" she wasn't going to hide the fact that she had heard something. Jake always seemed to know when she was lying.

"Doesn't matter" he mumbled and sat down heavily on the stoop next to her. "It's not a big deal, just a misunderstanding" he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Well there went his tell - Jake only smoked when particularly aggravated. Lucy's fingers twitched involuntarily, lightly twisting the fabric of her skirt, tempted to just reach out and pluck the cigarette from his mouth. She sucked in her bottom lip, trying to push the craving away, but Jake was a few steps ahead already - he pulled out another cigarette and silently offered it to her. Surprising even himself, he leaned in and pressed the end of his own glowing smoke to the unsullied one that she had taken. Their faces lit up momentarily with the faint orange light of the embers and Lucy realized that he was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his cheeks.

"I'm sorry" she pulled back as soon as she could taste the tobacco burning on her tongue "It ain't fair to you, whatever they're doing. You work so hard, you deserve a little leniency."

"Yeah, well...Ain't about that, Luce. It's fam'ly first and...they're real picky about who gets ta be fam'ly" he sighed, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the night sky.

"I'm sorry" she echoed again, sad on his behalf that he couldn't just do what _he_ wanted. Jake deserved to be happy. He was one of those few people that was just genuinely _good_ and there was absolutely no reason to deny him a sliver of his own joy in the world. "So...who's the unlucky girl who doesn't get you because she ain't good enough?"

Jake snorted a bitter laugh and took another drag of his cigarette.

The reply was muffled by the thick cloud of smoke he exhaled through his mouth and nose all at once "You"


	2. 2 Sarah

2\. Sarah

 **Saturday** **, June 6, 1903**

The third-floor suite was a definite upgrade from the cramped tenement that offered hardly more than a view of a brick wall. Even with the hustle and bustle that echoed up from the street below, it had been surprisingly easy to get used to these new accommodations. Some mornings, Sarah still woke up, marveling at just how much air a bedroom could have when it was her own private chamber. Within the first week, she had forgotten entirely what it had been like to share her space with her two brothers. Within the first month, she had fully adapted to her new status. So what if she was considered an old maid by some standards? She was particular and was glad that her family supported her by allowing her to have final say over exactly what she did with her life. For the time being, Sarah was beyond content to work on behalf of the the Children's Aid Society. She didn't see it as a socialite's folly, like so many would be quick to assume. No, there had been a time, several years back, when boys and girls so very much like the kids she worked with now, had changed the course of history. Sarah had been right in the thick of things then and she did everything she could to do her part since. The difference was that now, she wasn't like the rest of these unfortunates. She got out. By stupid, tragic, sheer luck, she got out. The whole family did.

Sarah lay in bed for a few extra glorious moments, enjoying the warm sunshine dancing through the open curtains. There was a breeze blowing from the Hudson, pleasant despite its promise of heating up by the afternoon. Some days Sarah was convinced she could smell the weather changing and today was no different. By mid-afternoon, the heat would be stifling, she knew. Perhaps a cotton dress would do. At least she wouldn't have to leave the building today, if she didn't want to. She strained her ears and could tell that Esther was in the parlor, most likely mending clothes already. Old habits died hard for their mother, for she still insisted on taking her husband's old clothes to restitch them to fit Les. Les was probably out selling newspapers, still just young enough to blend in with other newsboys even if his recent growth spurt was doing him few favors. At fourteen, he shot up overnight, his whole body stretching to become gangly and awkward in ways that nobody was prepared for. Their older brother David was Les' only consolation - he had been gangly and unsteady on his feet at around the same age as well, but now he had grown into his frame rather handsomely. David was guaranteed to be downstairs, judging by the sound of the bell tinkling every time the clinic door opened down on street level. The clear, silvery sound cut right through the clamor of busy thoroughfare, telling Sarah that David was already elbow-deep in appointments, despite it being Shabbat. David did always seem to care more about his patients rather than the strict rules of their father's traditions.

By the time she had dressed, pinned up her hair and joined her mother in the other room for a bite of late breakfast, it was nearing the hour to bring David his lunch. The tray was all arranged in the kitchen, complete with a plate of chicken, potatoes and sauerkraut, a piping mug of black coffee, and a slice of Esther's chocolate cake. The maid was just about to put the whole lot into the dumbwaiter when Sarah entered the kitchen.  
"I'll serve him today, Gertie" she helped the maid with the mechanism, even though she really wasn't expected to do this by anyone other than herself. It wasn't right for a lady of Sarah's status to be doing such menial chores. Gertrude was always quick to remind the Jacobs women about the fact that their actions we sometimes incorrect for the tier of polite society they now occupied.

Downstairs, Sarah unlocked the decorative wood paneling on the door of the dumbwaiter. It was designed to come down right into the office of the head physician. David insisted that he didn't feel right claiming this room, seeing as he was still so young, despite the fact that it was his name on the door out front. Still, it was the only place he could ever get some privacy to eat, so at least Sarah was able to coax him to sit behind the heavy mahogany desk once a day with expertly crafted meals. He was getting better about it too - today he walked right in and plopped into the chair before picking up a slice of fresh rye bread and munching on it absently.

"You know…" Sarah cleared her throat and took a seat opposite her brother in a chair where patients were supposed to sit. "...if you want people to take you seriously and not make you run around like some nursemaid in your own practice, you really should consider using this space more often than just as a glorified dining room." She laced her fingers, elbows resting on the carved wood arms of the chair.  
"Not today, Sar...just…" David exhaled sharply through his nose, tossed the bread back on the tray and pulled his chair in closer to the desk to tuck into the potatoes before they got cold. "...not today, alright?"  
"What's today?" Sarah knit her eyebrows, her gaze snapping back to her brother from wandering around the room. It was a handsome office indeed - wood paneling, a built-in bookshelf taking up the entire wall, filled with all sorts of medical texts and paperwork, the painting of their family that now hung behind David where the portrait of a pretty white-haired girl had hung until very recently. So, he finally decided to replace that painting after all. "Oh…" it dawned on her when her train of thought went down that path. She had genuinely forgotten the significance of the date.  
"Look, I know what you're gonna say…" David meticulously sliced up the chicken and popped a bite into his mouth  
"...it's been three years, David." Sarah cocked her head to the side, watching his face for a reaction "three _years_. It's got the best end of the deal here so just accept it for what it is and finally let yourself move on"  
"I'm too busy, Sar, you know that" He brushed her off before taking another bite "I've got three patients scheduled for this afternoon, inventory that needs cataloguing, a kid that came in off the street needing stitches and Mush isn't scheduled to come in until an hour from now." He was eating quickly, practically scarfing down his meal so he could get back to work as quickly as possible.

There was a time that David hated the clinic. It was work and it brought much better money than any other job David had picked up back in the day, but it came with the expectation that he had to earn his place in it by marrying the doctor's daughter. Sarah remembered it clearly, all those times David nearly quit the clinic because something about the arrangement rubbed him the wrong way. The girl had been a decent match, pretty enough with a sharp wit like David's and an entire medical practice as her dowry. But it had been pre-arranged, so David resented the whole situation. Even now, years later, Sarah knew that it rubbed him the wrong way just thinking about all that mess.

"All I'm saying is that it's about time you move on. The clinic won't burn down if you step away for an afternoon and enjoy yourself in the company of someone who might actually care about you?" Sarah leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes, studying her brother's mannerisms to try and get a read on him  
"I don't have time" David repeated and pierced a potato and a piece of chicken with his fork in one smooth movement. Ever since that unfortunate turn of events three years back, Sarah had taken it upon herself to ensure her big brother's romantic life. David didn't like that, but he wasn't given much of a choice, so he was left pushing her ideas aside under the guise of being too busy with his new practice "And even if I did, I don't have anyone to do that with"

Sarah rolled her eyes at how difficult David was being and shrugged "What about Katherine?" she threw out the first name that popped into her head.  
"What about her?" David looked up from his meal, his eyes darkening in response to his sister's ludicrous idea "She's too busy being a real journalist...and besides, she's Jack's"

Sarah stared at David, completely baffled that he dared go there "She's not, just like I never really was" she reminded him that there had been a brief fling between herself and David's best friend back then. It made David cringe every time, which helped drive the point home "She was always too good for him. You, however? Smart, successful, with means...those are all traits that could sway a woman like Katherine in your favour"  
"But...Jack…" David tried to push back weakly  
"You really have to stop defining the women in your life by what men they were attached to at one point or another" Sarah frowned and pushed to her feet. "That goes both ways too...Katherine isn't Jack's anymore and that horrid cheating scum of an ex-fiancée isn't yours. She never was, so stop dwelling on a doomed engagement that just wasn't meant to be and try with someone that could make you legitimately happy"  
"She wasn't scum" she heard David mutter under his breath, but chose not to pay it any mind.

"I'll make you a deal" Sarah had walked around to David's side of the desk and towered over him, arms crossed, while he sat, dabbing at his mouth with a cloth napkin "I help around the clinic and I even look over the inventory, you know I'm much better with keeping records than you are. I help and you send a note to Katherine. Don't even have to talk to her in person, just a simple note will do. As for me, maybe I'll help track down where the laudanum keeps getting to."

"Fine." David threw his hands up in surrender, frustrated enough by Sarah's insistence that he was willing to do whatever, as long as it made her go away. "Fine, go ahead and help" he waved his hand dismissively before reaching into his desk drawer for a notepad and a pen.

Before David could write a decent note though, a commotion in the reception area brought both siblings running out of the office. A young man was at the desk, demanding that he get to see David despite the lineup of patients. He ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair in frustration, knocking his leather eyepatch lopsided momentarily. He fixed it just as quickly and trained his good eye on the attendant. Sarah immediately recognized him, despite the fact that the past three years had brought him a lot of change. No longer was he the lanky teen drowning in layers of oversized shirts and hiding behind his patch. He had filled in rather nicely and looked every bit the dashing rogue that Sarah had the very unfortunate opportunity of knowing him as. The shadow of blonde scruff on his jaw aged him even more, complimenting the mildly haggard look he sported. She would never dare to classify Blink Baletti as handsome, because admitting that was the first step toward showing weakness in the face of his charms. Sarah knew better. Blink, as sweet as he could be, could just as easily bring a whole world of hurt crashing down around them. It had taken three years to recover from the last time and Sarah had absolutely no desire to deal with whatever mess he'd be dragging them into this time.

"What's the problem?" She walked briskly toward the visitor and measured him with a withering look. "You know you're not welcome here, Blink" the ban was very well known to him and to their mutual friends. Even Mush, his best friend in the whole world, knew he couldn't ask Blink to come around the clinic, even to pick him up after work for a night out.

"I get it, I do" Blink spun around to catch sight of both siblings, his hands up, caught off-guard "I'm gonna keep apologizin' fer the rest a my life, I know it, but I needs yer help real bad." Sarah wanted to turn Blink away then and there, just as she should have done a three years ago, before things turned sour for everyone. The fact that he even dared show his face at the clinic after what he'd done though suggested he really was that desperate for help.

"I gotta find 'er..." Blink rambled on, making brother and sister exchange a look."...her an'...that kid of ours…"

Sarah glanced over at her brother, who was battling with several reactions at once. He clearly had no idea what Blink was talking about. "What. Kid?" She demanded evenly, clipping off at every word. She had guessed, of course and now the truth was coming out. This was definitely a case of 'better never, than late'. David really didn't need this mess dredged up. Especially not today, on what would have been his wedding anniversary.

"I um..." Blink suddenly found the brim of his cap intensely interesting, his sharp blue eye dropping to study every thread in close detail. "...I've had a few visitors, a few news an'...i dunno if there even is a kid...wid' her I mean...I know there's others. Three others...so, I gotta find 'er just to make sure. I wouldn'ta thought to come here an' stir up bad blood again, but I'm outta ideas. Figgered you mighta heard from her since" he shrugged, looking as apologetic and lost as he sounded. It was obvious that all the years of escapades and flings caught up to him in a matter of days and now he found himself having to step up. Sarah had always thought karma would have her revenge in the end and it seemed like she finally got her wish.

"Get in" to Sarah's surprise, David answered with a cold edge to his tone that she hadn't heard more than a handful of times. He was gesturing to the office. "I don't need you running your mouth out here." She stepped aside as Blink stalked into the room and David followed. "Deal with the waiting room, Sar" was all he deemed to say before he closed the door in her face.


	3. 3 Marjana

3\. Marjana

Saturday, June 6, 1903

It was the crow's fault, really. It pecked at the ladybug and ate it without giving the poor thing a chance to figure out what was even going on. One moment, it was scurrying up the windowsill, helping itself out by vibrating it's tiny wings, holding on to the wood against the morning breeze; the next - it was gone. A little speck of goop left behind where the crow had crushed it.

It was poetic in a way.

Or ironic.

Or a simile.

One of those.

Albert's books would use a fancy word for the whole of it. There was probably even a German word a mile long that perfectly encompassed the concept that the ladybug was just a girl off the street, who had only recently been able to afford shoes; and the crow was the soul wrenching ominous doom that could strike at any given moment. It was the crow's fault, really. It was a living reminder that no matter how much she fought, crawled, and clawed her way up the vertical of her crumbling sanity, a single cruel whisper from the depths of her feverish brain would be the end of her. Again. And again. And again. Over and over. And always twirling.

It was the crow's fault, really.

If it hadn't shown up, it would have been a good day. Maybe. Before it showed up, it was Saturday, a day when Albert visited. He would come with one of his books, smelling of leather and paper and sweat and soap and...home. He would bring a daisy. And he would read out loud in the garden until it got too dark.

His voice always dropped a touch when he read, savoring the words as they formed on his tongue and escaped his lips. Sometimes, when he read about a feast in a fairy tale, his words had _flavour_ and _texture_ \- crunching, crisp, hearty, sweet. It helped remember a world from the before time. A world that still existed beyond the river in brownstones and distribution offices, cafes and lodging houses. At Tibby's and Jacobi's and Yin's dumpling house. At Irving Hall. At the Purple Palace. At the Refuge.

The Refuge.

 _Refuge_.

Another fancy word.

A fancy lie.

There was no refuge in that goddamn hellhole.

It was the crow's fault, really. Before it showed up, it was a quiet morning. But when it decided to eat the ladybug, the only sensible thing to do was to scold it. The kindly ladies that sat and played cards at the far end of the room didn't get it. This was important. Someone _had_ to tell the crow that he was being a right, proper cock. And it's true, he _was_. The ladybug just wanted to see the sky up close. Who could blame her? It was such a pretty shade of blue that day.

The kindly ladies didn't like the language. Let's be honest though, what they really didn't like was being interrupted from their cards. The old one, the one with the lazy eye, she liked to up the ante with bonbons, very much like the ones Albert brought every Saturday in a small paper bag. They were very good and the lemon ones tasted oh so fresh. They just disappeared too quickly. Overnight. It was okay though, it was the hunger probably. She didn't remember having them all, but they would be there when he left and gone the next morning. So she must have eaten them.

So the kindly ladies, their cards dropped and forgotten on the table at the back of the room, well...they had very unkind hands. Hands that grabbed and pinched and scratched and were stronger than they had any right to be. Hands that showed up with soap to clean out that filthy mouth. Hands that refused to let go even when told very clearly that it was the _crow_ , who needed to be reprimanded.

Breakfast was soapy. Soapy hiccups washed down with cloudy tea. Toast and beans. Definitely not like the beans at Tibby's, sweet, saucy and rich. Enough to go two days on. These ones were dried out and cracked. They'd probably never even heard of gravy. It was best not to tell gravy or they'd become even more sad. Sad beans made for a sad stomach. Maybe Albert would bring a sandwich. Sometimes they let him.

Just a few more hours. Then it would all be okay.

Unless Albert wouldn't show.

He always showed

But what if he wouldn't?

She told him to stop coming, to remember her with a daisy in her hand and a smirk on her lips. He had said he'd never forget the purple scarf she liked to tie her hair up with when she pulled out a worn deck of cards to sell rubes their fortunes. Too bad she couldn't see her own. Too bad she couldn't see the crow until it was too big, its thunderous wings eclipsing even the brightest, nicest thing Albert had ever done. She protected that kiss like an oyster hides its pearl. She curled her whole being around it and his other kisses, hoarding them; wrapping her whole essence around them. But the crow pecked each one, tugging at them out of her grasp until it chewed up every single one, leaving her with a handful of mangled, twitchy shreds that had once been a swarm of beautiful butterflies.

If he didn't show, it would be a good thing. He wouldn't have to hide his sad smile or try and kill time by reading to her. He wouldn't have to pretend not to notice what the unkindly hands did. He wouldn't have to pretend to recognize the mask she wore for him, because the mask was old, the features faded, chipped and broken in places. She tried her best to give him the face he so liked to touch and gaze upon. Too bad that beneath the mask was an inky, sticky darkness that seemed to get into everywhere and was impossible to fully scrub away. Or cut away. Or burn away.

She couldn't find the mask. The crow must have taken it when it ate the ladybug. And now the darkness was out, spreading out in sticky tendrils. It got into her eyes and chokes down her throat. It curled inside her chest, contracting her ribcage, crushing it in on itself. It squeezed her lungs until she couldn't take a single breath. It shackled her hands and feet, sticking to the metal cuffs that the unkindly hands brought out.

Sometimes, if she screamed loud enough, it scared off the shackles.

Sometimes, if she screamed loud enough, the orderly shut her up. He had a very heavy backhand. The darkness stuck even to that.

Sometimes, despite the orderly and the shackles and the sticky darkness, if she screamed loud enough, it all went away for a moment.

A small sting in her neck. A reassuring whisper. And the darkness would suck its tentacles back. And everything would go...soft.

Just before dinner of crow and ladybugs and rats and wriggly worms, a gentle voice calls her by a name that sounds right only when he says it.

"Hey, Poppy." The smile appears, smelling of paper, leather, sweat, soap and something else...something she doesn't remember anymore "I hope you're hungry, I managed to sneak in a pastrami on rye. Mr. Jacobi made it fresh, just for you, sweetheart."

Not wriggly worms after all.

"There's a new story by Jules Verne that I found. You haven't heard this one before" it's not too dark yet. There's enough time for an adventure.

"It's okay, we can just sit here. It's too hot in the garden." too hot and the cuffs don't unlock.

Just before he opens the book, his fingers reach out and pass over the mask. It's an old one, the features faded and the surface covered in a broken spiderweb. The darkness pulls back, afraid of his touch.

His lips brush over the part in her tangled hair.

The darkness recedes deeper, hiding in her belly.

Before long, he's combing her matted tresses with a small bone comb he carries for that very reason. The darkness churns in her stomach, but doesn't try and poke him.

"I missed you" a dry, papery rustle, not unlike ladybug wings, slips out and inspires him to smile.

"I missed you too" his fingers work a stubborn clump of hair loose.  
"It hurts" not the hair, but the darkness that chomps away from the inside, trying to tear its way back out.  
"I know. Davey sent something that'll help" his fingers keep going through her hair until the orderly gets bored and wanders away. Probably to find a rat.  
A pop of a cork.  
A sharp floral smell.  
"Here, love" he touches a finger to her lips and the smell sears her brain. She can taste it on his skin that he hates doing this, but it's the only way to put her demons to sleep. "That's all could get" he sounds so sad, so apologetic that he couldn't bring more of the poison. She tries to hug him, but the cuffs are too heavy. Her wings are broken. Tired. The lazy eye with the lemon drops gambled them away a year back. Pretty wings they were. Purple.

It takes but a few moments and everything goes still. The crow stops pecking. The darkness curls up, purring, sated for a time.  
"Thank you" she hopes she said that out loud. Sometimes she forgets to actually say things out loud and they get stuck in her head instead.  
"You're welcome, sweetheart" oh good, so he heard. By now, he probably got good at hearing her thoughts. Or her thoughts got loud enough for him to hear.  
"Can you please read to me now?"  
"Yeah, Poppy"

It was the crow's fault, really. But despite all that nonsense, his voice picked up the story, dropping a touch like it always did. He painted the most fantastical pictures of flying balloons and automatons, the images so vivid that she could almost smell them. He read until it grew too dark to see the pages and then kept going. He was so warm, the heat radiating from his body and keeping her safe.

"I'll see you next week, sweetheart. Only a few sleeps and we'll finish this story, alright?" he sometimes got this warble in his voice. His throat was probably dry from all that reading.  
"Seven sleeps" she had to count it on her fingers. For some reason, it was always seven. It never changed.  
"Seven sleeps" his voice echoed, reverberating through the night fog rolling in thick and shimmering. Purple. His hands are strong and truly kind. The definition of kind. Everything that the nurse's hands aren't "Let's get you back to bed" the hands eased her to her feet, then scooped her right up because the feet weren't there. She forgot them again. He walks back to the room with the crow window, holding her tightly, while she listens to his heartbeat.

He smells of paper, leather, sweat, soap, and... "Good night, Skitts" she murmurs as he carries her.  
Oh right...that's what that last one was.  
Home.


End file.
